


Bring Me the Head of Gilbert Beilschmidt

by Kate translates (Kate_Marley)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fantasy elements, Historical Hetalia, Multi, a sardonic Prussia is the narrator, references to history, references to multiple works of fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-08 01:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Marley/pseuds/Kate%20translates
Summary: When there’s a power-greedy horde of Eastern Block reactionary die-hards on the one hand and the whole of the NATO lead by THE HEROTMon the other hand after you, you know you might possibly have one or two problems—even if you truly aren’t able to help it at all. All the same, Gilbert Beilschmidt is reduced to running in order to survive a wild journey around the world in its final throes of the Cold War in which everybody, really everybody, wants his head—attachment to the rest of the body optional…Original written in German byNepheleNilfhain.This story is rated M mostly for historical/political references and for action scenes that include some violence. The narrator is a pretty sardonic Prussia, and the story is hilariously funny at times. At other times, it’s so suspenseful you’re almost chewing your nails off.





	1. London Calling

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Bring mir den Kopf von Gilbert Beilschmidt](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/352935) by NepheleNilfhain. 



> _NepheleNilfhain:_ […] I’ve reread [“Bring me the Head of Gilbert Beilschmidt”] once more; that thing is a bit wild indeed. :-) I haven’t found anything similar yet, but I’m still ploughing through the bulks of [Hetalia] stories. I’d really like to put that thing up on FF.net, but I’m afraid if I translate it it’s going to be gruesome.
> 
>  _Kate Marley:_ Of course, “Bring Me the Head…” is something special! I’ve never run into anything like it either. And I’d even tell you I’d translate it to English for you, but 110,501 words? Pheeew … I think you couldn’t even bribe me into doing this with an annual ration of Manner wafers. With lemon cream filling. :D
> 
>  _NepheleNilfhain_ : I’m considering putting “Bring Me the Head …” on FF.net in German, with a preface saying I’d be happy about translations and I’m otherwise very sorry for anyone reading it with Translate: I know the hassle with it all too well myself. ^^ Perhaps there’s going to turn up some insane soul willing to translate the whole thing. And I’m sure it’s a wild but funny exercise for everyone learning German.
> 
> ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
> 
> … Well, needless to say, I changed my mind. I’m trying to be that insane soul. The whole story is complete in _fourty-six chapters,_ though, so I really need people encouraging me to keep going (please?) Otherwise it’s going to take a veeeery long time until this story gets completed.
> 
> Characters and tags will be added as the story progresses.

London calling yes I was there too  
An’ you know what they said? Well some of it was true  
London calling at the top of the dial  
And after all this, won't you give me a smile?  
_(The Clash: London Calling)_

[Cover picture](http://fav.me/d8fs99h)

——————————

“Bawhahahahaha!”

It is nice to spark joy solely through showing up.

“Mwarharharhar!”

Exuberant joy.

“Uhuhuhuhuhu!”

Okay, _enough._ “Arthur, all right, my clothes don’t look _that_ weird,” I tried to stop the cheerfulness of the Brit that gradually became inappropriate. He was simply convulsed with laughter on his executive chair and delivered impressive proof that even Brits have a rough sense of humour.

“Right, I don’t understand,” I sighed. “What’s so endlessly funny about me?”

Chuckling, Arthur wiped tears of joy out of his eyes and giggled: “Maaate, you’re not a defector from the GDR, you’re the GDR defecting!” Ah yes, the subtlety of English humour … there were things I really hadn’t missed all that much.

“I’m glad there’s at least one person here who’s happy about something,” I sighed histrionically and flopped on the visitor’s chair, not without snagging the bottle of Scotch by way of precaution that had been standing on the desk incautiously. After decades full of vodka I’d even have considered drinking the stuff Alfred deemed whiskey. “I’m too cold down below for true merriment.”

“In short: You’re shaking in your boots.” Arthur nodded, still with much less seriousness in his face as would have been appropriate. All right, I admit it: In his stead, I’d also stand there laughing. The whole situation did have one or two funny points if you weren’t the main person concerned.

There was one thing about which the little poison dwarf was right: I was the GDR defecting and the fact that I had even made it as far as London was due to international Communism, of all things, that, on part of the West, had been managed from London for years. Whether I was embarrassed about that? A bit but, considering the circumstances, I have to admit that was complaining about first world problems. At least I was here and in one part. I wouldn’t have bet on that just a short while ago.

The heyday of my flight attempts had been over for quite some time when Dostoyevsky said “Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel,” and he knew exactly what he was talking about. Not just with reference to people, but I’m assuming he hadn’t known about us. I had become used to Russia, the landmass as well as its personification, and I had arranged myself for staying there for a long time. After certain initial difficulties (some hurt even today when the weather changed) we had worked things out between each other, battling with words—and sometimes not just with words.

We just hadn’t reckoned with our politicians.

Politicians and politics can be to us what infections are to people. At the best you need to sneeze once in a while; at the worst you’re ill in bed and puke your guts out. And then there are forms of government that are like the plague. Cholera. Ebola. I know what I’m talking about; I already had that. The old Empire had been no picnic in its final throes and the mess afterwards would have been a solid gastric flu to a human. But after that, the infection with fascism … how shall I explain that? That’s as if you’d suffer from Cholera and rampant insanity at the same time.

Insofar I was able to forgive Ivan quite a bit in retrospect, even the part in which my hip needed to be nailed afterwards and the whole year of 1946. Even 1953, although I thought he could have reacted _a little_ more relaxed. It was enough that his people trampled on my people.

Ivan had had a longstanding protracted complication with pseudo-Communist reactionary die-hards but he had developed quite a bit of immunity in the meantime. That made my everyday life easier, but humans wouldn’t be humans if they didn’t find a way to make life difficult for you.

To make a long story short: They wanted my behind grilled on toast because they had found out that the thing about satellite states also worked without a living Nation—at least what _they_ considered working. There was a list and my name was right on top of it. That was why I had dug out the old escape plans, discarded them and eventually succeeded in doing what really no one had still counted on, least of all myself: I went to the West.

The whole thing was only successful because I passed on the obvious. I didn’t even try to get to my brother but got involved with a bunch of concrete-hard old-style Communists who sung the Internationale at every meeting and who persistently addressed me as “Comrade”. But to my boundless surprise the charge of geriatrics actually managed to bring me abroad. They first smuggled me to the Middle East via Odessa, then on to Pakistan and from there as a bonus to a load of finest Afghans on to London—theoretically I could have covered the rest of the distance without a plane after half of the flight.

That way, my preliminary freedom was courtesy of a horde of fossilised and nostalgic veterans of various failed revolutions and a few subversive businessmen in the market segment “entertainment through herbal power.” I thought it fitting.

When I had finally arrived at London, I headed straightaway to Arthur who still lived where I had located him, knocked and was greeted with: “There you are at last! You took pretty long for just these few miles!” At least one of us was surprised—in this case, me.

“What were you thinking? That I don’t realise what’s going on in my own realm?” Arthur had asked while shoving me inside. “And who discreetly slid over the necessary monies for your little tour?”

 _“You’re_ financing international Communism?” Amazing; I wouldn’t have considered him this twisted. “Shouldn’t that one be controlled by Moscow?”

“What on Earth should _they_ have to do with international Communism?” he asked with sincere astonishment. “If I leave the whole thing to them, someone might realise it can’t possibly work in that way and start to review the whole concept, and _then_ we’re really up shit creek. No; I prefer directing the whole thing by myself, so I’m able to sleep easy in turn.” Ah yes. And I’m the one who’s paranoid if I say they’re after me.

“Right; then thanks a lot for rescuing me, especially for the part with the plane full of weed, but what’s a poor defector like me supposed to do now?”

Well, and that’s where the fit of laughter started…

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

It seemed like even Arthur hadn’t thought this far which told me two things:  
1\. The whole thing didn’t go about all this organised.  
2\. Seems like literally no one believed I’d make it this far. Thanks mates, I’ve got full confidence in you too.

“You can’t stay here for long,” Arthur mumbled behind his third drink. “The connections are a little too well-known and my folks are a bit stingy when it comes to protecting other countries, and she likes _you_ least of all. If she gets wind of you being here—and she will—then…” The both of us gulped, namely a large gulp of scotch each. Even from afar, Arthur’s current boss was someone you didn’t necessarily like to meet, especially not in my situation, but the thought of directly getting into trouble with her … that made me feel a bit sticky.

“Especially if she realises where I got the dosh from with which I organised your little trip.” My heart misgave me, especially since Arthur started to grin in a way that reminded me of the night when we went out late boozing in that little Belgian pub and heard Francis whining from the outside…

“You looted the exchequer,” I said flatly.

 _“I’d_ rather call it a government bond.” Sometimes when I heard him snicker like that, I asked myself if there wasn’t something to the old rumour that the devil was an Englishman. “Calm down, the whole thing was rather cheap.”

“Excuse me, are we talking about the same woman? About the fury who slammed her handbag on table and who yelled ‘I want my money back’? Rumour has it that she added: ‘Namely in this bag!’ This penny pincher is supposed to brush aside generously that you are helping _me_ with _her money?_ I am _so_ dead.”

“Don’t be like that! So far, you’ve withstood everything else too…”

That might be true, but the Thatcher? My stomach insisted on not feeling very well and I was inclined to agree with it.

I was still trying to get used to these news when the telephone rang, an ancient box from times when telephones used to be heavy enough in order to pass off as emergency weapons. Arthur answered it and hm-mhmed several times before he held the receiver out to me and said: “For you. Ivan.”

Just in case, I dug the piece of paper with the codes we had developed during the past few months out of my trouser pocket. After all, we had realised in which direction all this threatened to develop and wanted to be prepared this time. In this respect, I may be forgiven the greeting “Ivan, how is my little grumbler?”

“It’s snowing, and where you are, bunny?”

“Drizzly weather, could be more dramatic, you know how it is, little gruntler.”

“Well, well, but you should absolutely catch some sunshine, my cute little Prussian.”

“Ivan?”

“Yes, apple of my eye?”

“We can talk straight. First of all, Arthur here is signalling to me that this phone line is bugproof and secondly, he’s threatening to choke with laughter. And anyway—cute little Prussian?! What did I tell you about vodka made of mushrooms?”

“Couldn’t decipher your scrawl, but essentially you got me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. Catch some sunshine.”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line, followed by quiet snorting. I had no words either, at least no fitting ones. Of course I knew the rumours; we had eagerly contributed to them after we had realised fabricating embarrassments could provide you with a reasonably safe private life. And there used to be other times, too…

“Did they bring trouble upon you?” I asked, sounding considerably more brittle than I had meant to.

“It was nothing. I had them beat a path to my door for days and had to answer lots of questions before I threw all of them out.” There were merits to being known as a psychopath, I must say. People became careful when you started to grin like a maniac. “But they made themselves very clear. You better not let yourself get caught; that could really end in disaster this time.”

Look who’s talking! “What, even more so than with the two of us?” I tried to joke even if I didn’t feel like joking at all. If even Ivan said something could end in disaster, I might as well put my head in the blender and turn it on right away.

“They’re humans,” I heard Ivan’s calm and a bit sad voice. “They don’t have any reservations against doing away with one of us if it suits their plans.”

“Doing away?” That sounded bad. “Doing away like … gone?”

“Doing away like headshot and then dive without return in the Black Sea. With thongs made of concrete. Since they know things work without us if need be mores have become harsher. You wouldn’t be the first to disappear; not the last either, I presume. At best, they’re going to bolt you in again, but not in my house this time; they left no doubt about that. Just don’t let yourself get caught.”

“I don’t let myself get caught,” I assured him and heard him ring off. I didn’t know how I was supposed to manage that, but I didn’t want to break this promise, and not just because it was better for myself.

“Sounded like trouble?” The Brit knew what mattered in situations like this and handed me the next drink.

“Trouble.” A large gulp later, I looked outside into the awful London weather that came very close to my mood. “Trouble is putting it nicely. Ivan’s bosses want to get rid of me, and in the permanent way at that.” Now Arthur looked as if someone had spiked his drink, too.

“That is bad,” was remarkably appropriate and yet way too harmless in order to describe the situation. Yet, the idea wasn’t new. Us countries had the unpleasant quirk to not always conform to the opinions of our governments. That wasn’t our fault alone; that was due to the people who voted for one thing and wanted the other. Very well; sometimes, they just didn’t have a choice, which, in turn, got us in vicious trouble. For, in the end, we are countries, not government spokespeople.

From time to time, there had been rulers who thought it would have been considerably easier without the inconvenient country in the background; a fact we tended to push to the back of our minds. Especially since it was true. For a while, things worked without us. But only for a while. Then the real problems start … but countries don’t grow again as fast and easily as people. We need time in order to take shape, and that may proceed downright brutally in our youth. When we are young, we often become—how shall I put it—cannibals of our own kin. In this sense, Arthur had been lucky to get seen out just with the counterpart of a coccyx-breaking kick in the arse when his brother grew up. There were cases that were a whole new ball game. Still, it was a fact that we know well you can kill us and that people can run the show by themselves for a while until everything falls apart and… I better didn’t let myself get caught.

In the meantime, my host seemed to have realised that the situation was by far worse than he had worked out for himself. It was one thing to rock the boat of the reactionaries at the other side of the Iron Curtain a bit. It was a completely different thing to meddle with something for which the term “trouble” could as well be replaced by “tremendous doom”.

“And the past forty years used to be so nice,” I heard him sigh. “Peace within the family and neighbourhood; all right, somewhat frosty peace in part, but even so…”

“It’s not my fault this time!” I defended myself quickly. I knew that game. As soon as there was some trouble, people said it had been my fault.

“And what do we do with you now?” Arthur asked me in the end. “My people can’t stand your people, but in this case I wouldn’t put anything past them because they can stand _you_ even less.”

“You emphasised that already,” I replied a little irritably. Good gracious, how resentful these Englishmen could be! “You needn’t bear with me for long, just … erm …”

“You’re broke.”

“I needed to leave a little unexpectedly and couldn’t convert foreign currency beforehand,” I defended the emptiness in my pockets. “Claim it back from Ludwig if need be; he can set it off against the rest of the credits.”

“Which you’re not going to ever pay back either.” Looked like my solvency had suffered considerably beyond my own kin, but if this soothsaying Brit there thought about me I had only read Pushkin during the past forty years, he was on the wrong track. The Pravda was an excellent newspaper as long as you wanted to roll your cigarettes with it. For actual information, I had persuaded the big ruffian as early as our dark years to get at least the bare necessities. Incidentally, that had been one of the few occasions in which he had listened to reason. (In turn, that had unfortunately made me susceptible to blackmail. No newspaper without compliance struck home more than most physical blows.) 

That’s how we came into possession of subscriptions to the Washington Post, the Times, La Stampa and, for everything going on in the Franco-German-speaking area, the Neue Zürcher Zeitung. Taken together, they were often better informed than the KGB, embarrassingly. My esteem of intelligence had sunk considerably during this time.

In short, I knew which sums my little brother forked out in order to leave the lights on in the European house. A friendly “How’s your agriculture doing?” later, even Arthur realised that it was possibly quicker and easier to just give me money.


	2. Trutz, Blanke Hans [Withstand, Tempestuous North Sea]

Noch schlagen die Wellen da wild und empört  
_[The waves still batter there wild and outraged]_  
wie damals, als sie die Marschen zerstört.  
_[Just like at the time when the fens were destroyed]_  
Die Maschine des Dampfers schütterte, stöhnte,  
_[The engine of the steamer rattled and groaned]_  
aus den Wassern rief es unheimlich und höhnte  
_[From the waters there was eerie calling and jeering]  
(Detlev von Liliencron: Trutz, Blanke Hans [Withstand, Tempestuous North Sea])_

——————————

Speaking from my manifold experience: Pretty much all of Europe is populated with countries with severe drunkard’s mentality. I pride myself to say I did very well on this battlefield. Some forty years of practice with Ivan made themselves felt this evening, too, but Arthur had learnt something new as well. Apparently, hanging out closely with Scotland and Northern Ireland rubbed off a little. Honestly, dear folks: If you ever attempt to have a drinking contest with someone and want to win: Never compete with Scots and Irish people. Bad mistake.

We had switched to that beef tea disguised as beer and had spent the evening exchanging memories and tattle. I was surprised how much and yet how little about my fate had got through to the others. Of course they had collectively latched onto the part I preferred to push to the back of my mind … sensationalist riff-raff, pffrt.

“We heard bad things.” Expecting some juicy details, Mr I’m-absolutely-discreet-and-only-read-the-society-pages-of-the-Times-anyway-but-secretly-the-Sun sat next to me, waiting.

“From whom?” I don’t come out with the details of my life this fast! I might keep him in suspense and full of curiosity, but what had happened was far in none-of-your-business territory.

“Various people,” he squirmed before giving up. “Okay, Belarus ranted everywhere she could about you being a rotten brother pincher and—”

“Stop!” I raised my hands and decided—if fate gave me the opportunity—to give it to her straight about “disquieting obsessions”. “If _that_ is your source, I can roughly imagine what’s floating about. Uh…” I only realised of which kind the rumours probably were the moment I voiced that. I started to feel a little queasy. I really didn’t want people to get that kind of impression of me.

“Well—all of us saw you at the signing and…”

“Man, that was in ’49; that was when I was doing badly for a variety of reasons. In which _you_ had quite a bit of a stake too; all of you. Even I don’t get over a transformation like this without any kind of adverse effects.” Fair enough, making the GDR out of me hadn’t been the reason why I had looked like death warmed up, but I need to admit one thing: I can be a resentful bastard, too. I held ’52 against Arthur and the other two windbags. That was when the whole thing could have ended, but no, the Messrs Victorious Powers absolutely had to get into a definite scrap with each other. Don’t get me wrong, I have always been a soldier and part of me will always remain one, but damn, I wouldn’t have had objections against having a try at a really long period of peace after the first half of this century. That was why Arthur could drink everything he wanted for all I cared, but he most definitely didn’t have to know everything.

“Alfred saw into certain documents … reports…” The stiff Brit actually turned a delicate pink. “Medical reports by the physicians treating you…”

“Very well, we did have a bad start,” I admitted reluctantly. “A pretty long and really bad start. But at some point, the rage had evaporated, Stalin was embalmed, and Ivan came to himself, possibly for the first time in this whole century. And you don’t brush away a long history such as ours just like that.”

“So the rumours about—um—well—er—erm...” Great, Brits are so easy to get out of step. Force them to speak about sex openly and they’re going to hurl themselves into the pointed end of their umbrella out of their own volition.

“No.” It was supposed to sound indignantly, but I couldn’t stop myself from grinning for anything in the world. Some things are just stronger than me. Ivan, for example, but I’m tough and I’ve always had such a thing as a remnant of pride. This whole master and servant thing might appeal to certain secret desires of Arthur’s (no, we don’t cherish any prejudices, not us), but overall, I considered any corresponding attempts beneath me. And eventually, since such a thing is only fun if the other one plays along at least somewhat, Ivan quietly gave up. He disappeared to Odessa for a week and returned with an exceedingly relaxed expression and an empty purse. I didn’t ask, he didn’t say anything, but in such a situation nobody needs to hum “House of the Rising Sun” in my ear for me to understand what was going on.

After that, he showed up in my cell one evening and put a bottle of beer in front of me. It was cold, but Russian beer? I asked him if that was the next step in my punishment whereupon he trod away grumbling and returned with another beer the other day. I threw a glance at the characters—Chinese beer? But it was surprisingly good. Perhaps a remnant of the eastern endeavours of my former bosses.

Half a crate later, I was assigned a different room and finally got rid of the chains. In a balmy summer’s night, we got hammered so badly that there almost started a recession in his country. We were telling each other dirty jokes at what I was by far superior to him, of course. Everyone who used to be on the third crusade—but let’s leave it at that.

We never spoke about the other thing and I don’t see much of a sense in changing that either. What should we have told each other, anyway? Sorry I almost killed you? I him in the war; he me afterwards? The emphasis should be on “almost”, I supposed, and the rest is, as the phrase goes: End of story.

“No,” I repeated myself, this time a little more friendly. “And before you ask: His bosses didn’t let me go. Too lucrative as far as my people were concerned; too insecure as far as I was concerned. But for some mysterious reason they think I can’t be trusted, not really.” I was quietly laughing to myself, knowing very well which terrific troubles I had made them. Them, not Ivan. _He_ had never tried to make a member of the Communist party out of an old Prussian.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The morning after a booze-up is always characterised by one feeling: Not regret, but the deep certainty that one of the thirty beer—erm, Ale, yesterday evening must have been bad. As far as I was concerned, I was fighting the demons that had crawled through my open mouth and into my stomach over night with pickled herring and a good morning beer. That was why I was soon feeling better whereas poor Arthur looked as if he had lost a war once again.

“Bismarck?” I asked and got a look from bloodshot, deeply suffering eyes.

“Must you start with stale news this early?” the Empire of Headaches mumbled at me. “Actually, I just want to die…”

“I was rather thinking about the herring, but if you absolutely want to die…”

“Fish?” Yes, I knew that he of all people whose national dish was fish and chips reacted very badly to fish after a boozy night. Polite as I am, I waited until the retching sounds had stopped and he had brought out the misused wastepaper bin.

“I’m never going to drink again,” he declared pale but more collectedly. “Never, never again.”

“Do I get a pound for every time you said that? And two if you swore it on some mysterious stuff?”

“No, I can’t possibly scrape up this much money. I’m assuming you’re in good practice?”

Nice euphemism for: You’re probably having a skinful nonstop in your wasteland, which he was (sadly) not entirely wrong about. “So-so,” I claimed and wiggled a little with my palm. “You’re keeping fit, but you know all too well: In the long run, alcohol is no solution.”

The most crooked morning after smile in world history was looking at me. “Damn, how I missed these stupid jokes,” he huffed. “Somehow, everything was better in the old days.”

“No, my man, the old days were the old days,” I disagreed before I was faced with an ex-empire with morning depression. “The times are always what we make of them.”

“I’d like to have your sunny disposition for once, just for one day. Apropos of nothing, Mr Optimism, where do you go from here? Do you have something like a plan or should I fetch the gift ribbon now in order to deliver you appropriately?”

I got up as gracefully as possible (which proved a little more difficultly due to some deceitful, alcohol-induced after-shifting of the floor) and replied: “First of all, of course I have a plan, and secondly, I definitely won’t let _you_ deliver me to the Russian garnished with a ribbon once again. Still not sure what you were thinking at that…”

“Oh, come on,” the Celtic goblin snickered to himself. “Sending the German pounce pot (1) to the snowman, come on, there’s a certain humour in that…” And that was how Arthur achieved to leave me utterly speechless for the first time after almost one thousand years of mutual history.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Admittedly, the term “plan” was a little bombastic. An idea. A possibility. Something you could try without actually expecting to succeed. Better than nothing? Better than gift ribbons in any case. Especially since I wasn’t quite sure where this “humorous” Brit would affix it.

I needed to keep a low profile for a while which was why we had reached out to a number of old acquaintances very, very carefully in advance. On my departure, some answers had still been pending, but since Ivan had been their recipient anyway, that didn’t matter. We had agreed on a coding as a precaution and when he requested me to “catch some sunshine” I knew Romano, the good soul, had agreed. There were some things you could just rely on! Even if that meant in this case that I’d be the guest of a truly honourable society in the near future … but to which I needed to get in the first place. But for what had I found accommodation with an old naval power? Knowing him, I was sure he still had some old fishing cutter at hand. He wasn’t able to do completely without the sea.

“Sicily, eh?” A slight shrug under the tarpaulin; that was all this was worth to him. “You need to know for yourself what to do, but I suppose the range of choice is rather limited, I presume?”

“Finite,” I ground out. We weren’t on the sea for half an hour and I was already terribly sick while Arthur whistled away cheerfully to himself. He had indeed knocked out an old fishing cutter, allegedly in order “to relax a little, to cruise around a little…”

“Ancient bad habits die hard, hm?” I asked and threw a glance at one of the waterproof barrels. “Or did you join the extremely hardcore smokers?”

“These? I only have them on board in case Francis comes for a visit.” Nice try, only Francis would never have touched anything but Gauloise. Much less a Danish cigarette. I wondered what would happen if he was caught smuggling before I realised no one would catch Arthur in his own waters. Except maybe Neptune himself, and that only on a day on which the whole universe had painted a target on his front … so, more or less my normal condition.

“You should rather be glad about ancient bad habits, ancient bad habits provide you with a way to Sicily without the quandary of having to show a passport. Besides, you have a passport, do you?”

What do you reply in such a situation? If you know the other knows exactly you’re a stateless country at the moment that, in addition to that, has escaped from a country where passports were difficult to get anyway? I decided on the classic.

“Oh, sod you!”

“Not without romantic music and candlelight, my man, not without that,” Arthur chimed at me cheerfully and we puttered on across the tempestuous North Sea, closer to our destination.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Crossing the North Sea—how shall I put it? I’ve never been noticeable for being a seafaring nation, unlike Arthur who only felt truly well on the sea. Now I got my comeuppance for having so little compassion in the morning, for while I was sick, I heard the question from behind if I was looking for the sunken Rungholt. I became abruptly aware of the kind of situation in which Liliencron had come up with “By the North Sea, the Murderous Sea” _(Von der Nordsee, der Mordsee)._ Yes, I had also gone over Rungholt this day and my breakfast had sunken, only it didn’t take six hundred years to do so but just—well, too long to my taste. But I can only confirm the thing about the waves battering wild and outraged. I don’t want to say we got in trouble with wild, long-maned surges, but damn—that day, the beast wagged a bit with its tail fin at the least.

“How much longer?” I groaned at some point while asking myself if the British poison dwarf didn’t want to rediscover America on the Northern route because it became ever wetter, colder, and more dreadful.

“Don’t be pathetic. The sea is quiet today after all,” was the heartless reply. “Besides, bright green really isn’t your colour.” And again I fed the fish…

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

It’s a long way from England to Sicily and still it was the quietest part of my journey. I became used to the swell, at least enough so as not to agitate my stomach further and to begin making a plan out of my vague idea. I’d need to have a plan sooner or later because I couldn’t hide at Romano’s place for forever; doing so was just too obvious for that. Besides, I didn’t entirely trust his connections; they were tied to Alfred’s realm a bit too closely.

There was one thing I had learned during the past forty years, even from a distance: Alfred was nobody I wanted to cross paths with. This time, it didn’t have anything to do with some old grudge. In a way, I was even grateful—not for anything concerning myself; he had been an ass in that respect—but for what he had done for Ludwig. I remembered the years after the first Great War only too well. During the first years in which I had been held in isolation, it had been my grim fear that precisely this fate was imminent to Ludwig again, just without my help this time. He’s a real fighter, my little brother, but at some point, even real fighters drop down dead if they get chased too much.

When I learned about the Marshall Plan and its impacts, I had been relieved and registered it as the one good deed of someone who seemed utterly fishy to me. Perhaps my surroundings had rubbed off on me; perhaps it was also due to me not liking him playing the big brother; for sure it had to do with his attitude. Heroes may look very differently, depending which side you’re currently on. For Alfred, there was only one side: His own, and it was good by definition. A clear case of Rule Number One (2).

I had seen the Hero from the side that gets their face smacked and I had to say: Yes, he was very heroic. That’s what he was doing with true perfection. Just—he confused being a hero with being right. And that made him considerably more dangerous than even Ivan had been in his worst times. At least Ivan hadn’t expected you to worship him for the beating you got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translator’s Notes:**
> 
> The poem in the beginning refers to the sinking of Rungholt, a town in what used to be the Danish Duchy of Schleswig but is Germany today. Rungholt reportedly sank into the sea during a storm tide that hit the coast of the North Sea in 1362, the so-called _Grote Mandreke (Great Drowning of Men)._
> 
> 1) In order to dry fresh ink, people used to tickle fine sand on their pieces of paper. Pounce pots are the vessels in which this sand was stored. The Margraviate of Brandenburg was nicknamed “the pounce pot of the Holy Roman Empire” due to its sandy, barren soil. Yes, Prussia and Brandenburg used to be distinct entities (for a start, Brandenburg was an electorate of the HRE whereas Prussia has never been part of the HRE in the first place), but there was also sandy, barren soil in parts of former Prussia.
> 
> **Writer’s Note:**
> 
> 2) For all those who don’t know it: Rule No 1: I am _always_ right. Rule No 2: In case that doesn’t apply, Rule No 1 takes effect immediately.


	3. The Baxters on one side, the Rojos on the other

The Rojos on one side of town, the Baxters on the other, and me right in the middle. _(A Fistful of Dollars)_

——————————

Sicily! The Island of the Gods if only the Sicilians wouldn’t live on it, and _that_ is a voluntary disclosure of the locals. I realised how much I had missed the sun and the smells of the South in my icy exile. I stood there, intoxicated by the colours and smells. According to Arthur, I was the perfect example of the stuffed dummy. Luckily for him, Romano came before I had succeeded in closing the lid of the fish barrel and freed Arthur from his uncomfortable predicament. Yes, I admit: I was boisterous. Sue me.

“Good to see you,” Romano greeted us after leading us to a little osteria nearby where we fell upon the local cuisine. Rather: I fell upon it; Arthur nibbled a little at the antipasti, mumbling: “Looks quite delicious. If only I didn’t have this upset stomach...” Romano may have bought that from him; I knew what was up: Arthur suffered from an acute fit of: “Urgh! Foreign food!” For me, however, it was like a detour to Elysian fields. Without wanting to bad-mouth the Russian cuisine--it does have its appeals and luckily I have no problem stomaching recipes beginning with: “Take the yolk of 24 eggs...”, but I had almost forgotten how delicious Italy’s culinary attractions could be.

Unfortunately, I had also forgotten Southern Italians have a completely different concept of “mildly spiced” than Northern Europeans. Or other people overall, although I remember some peculiarities of the Asian cuisine that I enjoyed during this stupid story in the Far East... Another reason why I rather wanted to stay away from Alfred. Because of the stupid story and my role in it, not because of some surprisingly hot food. And because of some surprisingly hot Korean ladies who considered the Hero not quite as attractive as he considered himself, hehe.

“Would you like some white bread in order to soothe the pain?” Romano inquired compassionately. He didn’t fail to notice that flames were striking even out of my ears. “It really is a very mild sauce; I specially told the landlord to spice it as if for little kids because you don’t know many good things.”

Good things—well, _that_ was definitely too much of a good thing. Of course I had scalded my tongue several times in my life, but _this_ was extreme.

“You wanted to tell us something,” I panted and stuffed the fresh white bread into my mouth. There actually was a slight improvement after that.

Romano nodded keenly.

“Difficulties,” he explained and looked as dramatically sinister as is left only to a Sicilian.

“Your ... disappearance has got around in the meantime, at least in certain circles that are topsy-turvy now.”

“Well, I expected them not to be particularly thrilled, but topsy-turvy?” Arthur shook his head in disbelief. “And, anyway—certain circles? Who is _certain circles_ supposed to be?”

“Everybody?” Romano suggested gloomily and this time his tone wasn’t dramatic; it was actual darkness. “The whole world is after Gilbert’s head—end not even half of them insists for it to be still firmly attached to his body upon delivery.”

Well, compared to this, the sauce really was mild.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

At first, it wasn’t clear to us just what had gone out of hand so utterly and completely. That was until we pieced the puzzle together to a full picture bit by bit and I was telling myself “You might have known this, you fool.”

Perhaps I forgot to think in the run-up; I’m going to admit that. Perhaps I really am Mr Sunshine with air in his head (although Arthur was expressing himself even ore drastically); perhaps I had severely underestimated one or the other aspect of current policy. And then I also happened to have bad luck.

I hadn’t guessed how paranoid the world as such had become in the meantime. Oh, of course I knew Paranoia; I suppose every one of us has had the pleasure of speaking with her already … and it could actually be a pleasure for a while. You could say many things about her, but not blame her for being particular or delicate. She took whoever came too close to her. Only if you’re very lucky, you can escape before your brain has been turned into sauerkraut. If she beguiles you and whispers in your ear: “Just because you know everyone is after you doesn’t mean you’re _not_ paranoid”—ugh, I remember and blush even today. Although I was able to escape shortly before passing into the sauerkraut phase. She stopped by at Ivan’s only occasionally. Sometimes even Lunacy is beneficial: As long as you have him, he protects you from other lunacy and later on you’re pretty immune—or dead. But she probably didn’t need Ivan anymore anyway; she had found a permanent lover and whispered nasty things into his ear now. About other countries; about useful and useless countries; about countries that were better to disappear; and about good opportunities. Apparently I was a good opportunity. It was inconvenient this opportunity didn’t concern my wellbeing.

“Just to summarise,” Arthur stated prosaically. “On one side, there are Gilbert’s old bosses who hope for being able to do as they please with his land and for getting an industrious country without any fastidiousness from his demise. On the other side, there is my brother who is completely devoid of reason, sadly, and who hopes for investigating how our nature really is structured via some experiments that so far exist only in theory from Gilbert … after having plunged half of South America into chaos that way. And Gilbert is in the middle?”

“That’s about it,” Romano nodded.

“To whom else does this sound like ‘at least three times out of my league’?” Arthur hissed with honest dismay. I understood him. No one likes to learn lunacy has settled in your family.

“So there’s the Eastern bloc on one side; Alfred, the self-proclaimed world police, on the other; and me right in the middle?” And in this moment, Lunacy got hold of me as well. “It _could_ work, you know.”

“It is your funeral.” Arthur sat there as if someone had clubbed him to the ground. “No, wait—perhaps you’re even going to be with us—pickled in formaldehyde slice for slice. My brother is very orderly in this respect. Perhaps he’s going to store your brain next to the one of Einstein, only Einstein had the opportunity to die just like that before they removed his brain!”

By now he had talked himself into a fury and relinquished any restraint. The gentleman had taken his leave and the raging warrior clad in fur had appeared who rushed for Vikings in order to split their skulls. I liked the mad warrior but I knew that, unfortunately, he couldn’t help me here.

“Calm down, I’m neither pickled nor sliced up yet.” Together with Romano, I managed to pull Arthur, who was wildly waving his hands about, onto the nearest chair. “And if it’s arrangeable, I’m going to avert that.”

“You have no idea who you’re messing with,” Arthur huffed, looking like someone who has just lost a bit of his faith. Perhaps I’d feel similarly in his stead. I had received a little foretaste of this when Ludwig had informed me that we were to support the elected government from now on, no matter how questionable the whole thing was. And he had also believed he was doing the right thing … oh Lord, save me from people who believe they’re doing the right thing and do so at any cost … and from non-alcoholic beer. Nothing good ever comes of either, even if they sound reasonable at first.

“I’ve stood against him in two world wars and I’m standing on the other side of the Iron Curtain for 40 years now,” I replied. “I do think I’ve got a certain idea of who I’m dealing with. They didn’t let me outside particularly often but Russia is neither the moon nor behind it.”

“But Arthur is right: It’s Alfred. Nobody can win against Alfred!” Romano assured me glumly. “He is _The Hero._ He always wins.”

“Or does he?” I gave a dry laugh. “Alamo. Little Big Horn. Indochina. I’m quite willing to proceed with this list if he insists on putting me on it. Wouldn’t be the first time I’m kicking the hero’s behind.

“Night or the Prussians?” Arthur grinned back weakly. “You’re right; it could work. You could also fail horribly.”

“Then I’ll be failing horribly but on a grand scale,” I promised, perhaps a little too grandiloquently even by my special standards. A plan; I really was in need of a good plan now, otherwise this would be the last dance I was performing.

The dance with the globe; I had always loved this scene because it captured a thing I had always done: I had always danced a dance with something that was by far bigger, more powerful and more dangerous than me. The little loud man had never understood that you’re never the one leading this dance until the end. At the end, you either bow politely and hope you’re going to get away with it, or you’re going to get run over.

To me it hadn’t been the globe even if the metaphor was very fitting for the 20th century and even if I’d bet any money that it was exactly this for Alfred (because I recognised other dancers with the eyes of one who is an addict himself). For me, it was Death. Not the guy with the lack of flesh on his bones; my Death was the lovely concept of old: The beautiful young woman with the scythe in her hands; hands as pale as mine and eyes as black as mine were red. I had grown up with the image of Knight, Death and the Devil and every warrior who is honest knows all of us return to it time and time again, for as long as it takes her to get us, the beautiful Lady Death.

That didn’t mean you’d desperately attempt to meet her. Every time we escape we get the chance to dance with her again, and even when we’re living through a time of peace once in a while—at some point, we’re going to hear the chimes and drums, and before we know what’s happening with us we’re in her arms again and let the dance begin anew. Which other love could prevail against this? It was intoxicating but it made damn lonely because no one could compete with it.

That was why I had always taken care Ludwig stayed as far away as possible from certain aspects of war and fight. It was enough when one of us had a real problem in this respect.

So I was sitting around in this tiny osteria and sweating in the sun of the south. From far, far, away, I was hearing a melody only I could hear and that I feared while at the same time desperately yearning for it.

Damn.

Literally.

Good plans don’t fall from heaven; you seldom find them at the bottom of a bottle either even if I have to admit I was often looking for them there. If a muse for good plans existed, she is by far the laziest creature I’ve come across—and that included the personifications of the continental plates. Good plans are scarce and they come much less at command. You could even say good plans are much like an anarchist: Sometimes they came unexpectedly but were terrific.

Ouch, that was, once again, an example of what had been hiding at the bottom of one of the bottles the three of us had generously spread around us. Of course that only was for defence—no one had been able to approach through this forest of empty bottles without causing tremendous rattling. My brave comrades-in-arms had become absent-minded in the meantime: Arthur was lying on the table, head on his arms, snoring away towards a hangover he’d probably rate epic, even more so since he wasn’t used to red wine at all. Romano had gone “to take a leak” an hour ago, so either he was extremely picky in choosing where to do that or it had something to do with the cute waitress who had since vanished without a trace as well.

Unfortunately the landlord was considerably less cute and a little impaired by the ravages of time. That was why I refrained from the last-minute plan called “Acting completely out of my mind once again, preferably together with someone else, before important parts necessary for it were gone” and switched to Plan B “walk along the beach”. I was still feeling quite secure; nobody would know or suspect where I was, not yet, and Ivan, the only one who at least theoretically knew where I might be, would say nothing. His people didn’t have the courage to venture on him and even if Alfred would manage to storm on the ice palace—I suppose Ivan was one of the few who was able to knock the Hero into shape in direct combat. Or who would just throw him out if he wasn’t in the mood.

There was a fresh breeze from the sea that smelt of salt and seaweed, and the stars of the south were sparkling above me. The heat had vanished but it was still agreeable and after a while I realised I was trying to memorise this moment. So Mr Sunshine did fear he might have overreached a bit there and wanted to make the most of the little that remained.

On the other hand, Mr Sunshine was very drunk and tended to become wistful on these occasions. Even if Roderich would never admit it; this thing about world weariness he liked to pass off as his very own invention—I had nursed it even when he only was a worn-out sparkle in the eyes of the Holy Roman Empire. Which reminded me I wanted to have sex very urgently, and not, as Woody Allen had expressed it with his immortal words, “sex with someone I love”—myself. (It was also Woody Allen’s fault I couldn’t listen to Wagner anymore without laughing or at least thinking of Feliks—he had unknowingly hit the mark there. Listening to Wagner; raiding Poland—that had been the chronological order.

When I was just about to take matters in hand myself I saw someone strolling down the beach. To my delight, it wasn’t the elderly landlord but Melpomene whom I truly hadn’t seen since a long time. I have no idea which one of the old gods had been so kind as to send me the muse of tragedy or if she had been attracted by my intention out of her own volition in order to fertilise my spirit. In any case, we didn’t linger on foreplay for long but proceeded directly to the part in which the muse disperses her divine gifts over you … and I suppose you can imagine the rest yourselves.

The next morning, I was feeling well even if I woke up in the dunes alone. Melpomene had moved off while I was asleep and left a number of good ideas; the second of her gifts for which I was very grateful. It seemed I was able to stomach the red table wine better than the darn ale because save for a little tug in my stomach I was feeling splendid.

Arthur was feeling horrible and whoever had thought he had got it bad already on the first booze-up now had to witness what made the difference between purgatory and hell.

“Nothing of this is for me,” he mumbled with a face reminiscent more of a wicked caricature than the embodiment of England. “Want bed. Own bed. And want drizzle. And tea. And bed.” He wasn’t able to say considerably more even if he allowed himself to be talked over by Romano to take a “decent coffee” while nibbling a little on one of the sweet buns Roman had brought from the nearest bar.

“That isn’t coffee; that is an assault,” a very stomach troubled United Kingdom complained. I couldn’t go along with that. The dishwater; this very think coffee I had been served in England was hardly capable of even nudging one’s organism, let alone waking it.

“So? Do we have a plan?” Romano inquired with interest while I was refuelling my energy reserves with the aid of the pudding buns. The combination of sweet yeast dough with little bits of candied fruit and soft, sweet dessert cream was a true revelation in terms of breakfast.

“Possibly.” It came out in a very muffled way thanks to plenty of yeast dough buns. “However, I must tell you—let’s say, I need to explore one or two things.” An alert and a swollen, zombie-like pair of eyes were looking at me tensely. “In Rome.”

“But this time you can take the train,” Arthur declared and scarpered off, noting he needed his sleep since he was a very busy nation after all. Besides, his absence would attract attention at some point.

“Train, eh?” Romano gazed after Arthur staggering away. “He knows Italian trains, does he?”

“I suppose not,” I assumed. I, myself, remembered the local train quite well and I had a certain foreboding nothing had improved since then. This whole thing at least had one advantage: Nobody would ever come up with the idea I was fleeing by the Italian train, of all things.

“So, by train.” Even if he was an ardent admirer of his homeland—Romano was enough of a realist to be able to imagine which kind of birch was beat across my butt. He looked at me with the only too well-known look of “Do I absolutely have to come along?” everyone started to put on at some point. (Except Ludwig.)

“Just bring me to Catania so I can get to the ferry at Messina from there; I’m going to manage the rest on my own. I know the route, after all.”

“Could be, Gilbert, but I hope you’re aware one or two days have passed since the Third Crusade and some transport routes look completely different nowadays?” he asked, looking concerned. “Whatever; at the least I’m going to bring you to Messina myself. As long as you’re under my protection, there isn’t much that could happen to you there. But as soon as we’ve reached Messina and the ferry, you need to see for yourself how you’ll manage. My influence doesn’t go farther these days.”


End file.
